The Feet of God

114 - WHAT’S FOREVER FOR?

Life at The Rusty Trumpet was becoming a comfortable routine of slopping and swamping.  I usually drank on Jar-Boy’s first shift, staying through Sandi’s sessions.  Jar-Boy was right.  The Queen Bee held court, and she loved to be the center of attention.  Her relationship with the customers was based on personal friendships, and I saw her extend outreach as she ushered regulars into her backroom office.  But these audiences was usually kept brief.

A couple’a days ago something sorta unusual occurred.  It was just before Jar-Boy was supposed to start his second round of duty, and I was heading to my cot.  I caught Jar-Boy loading cases into a storage locker, and every now and then he’d be looking behind him and all around.  A case tipped over and broke apart, and several dozen glass jars shattered when they hit the ground.  A gooey, yellow-orange substance oozed out.  I offered to swamp it up, but Jar-Boy waved me off.  In fact, he practically shooed me away.  So I left him there, and I went straight to bed.

The next day I was just sitting on my stool enjoying a Bloody Mary on Sandi’s shift, when she leaned forward to warn me to expect a visitor during my nightly swamp.  Someone named Madama Krupskaya was showing up at The Rusty Trumpet after closing.  According to Sandi, this woman had great and special gifts.  And I could tell Sandi herself was clearly impressed with Madama Krupskaya’s abilities.  Madama Krupskaya’s talents included the reading of palms, Tarot cards, and calling up the dead.  For a small donation, of course.

I was told the two of them would be sitting at a table inside the bar when my shift started, and that I should just ignore them and quietly go about my business.  I assured Sandi this was no problem for me, and that I’d be sure to stay out of their hair.

No sooner do I speak these words than Joe Jack pops in and seats himself in the Government.  He’s smiling ear-to-ear, so he’s obviously intent on sharing more of his hilarity with us.

“Ever hear about the 60-second sex maniac?”

“No,” Sandi batted her eyes.

Pause.  “Got a minute?” Joe Jack leered.

Joe Jack and the Queen Bee pawed each other’s shoulders and laughed like it was the most hilarious thing.  Joe Jack entertained Sandi with several more old jokes, meanwhile I moved down to a bar stool near the Vatican area.  The Pope and his partner was silently nursing their drinks, staring straight ahead, and looking like they had an unspoken grudge against the known universe.  I did not engage them in conversation, preferring the ecumenical peacefulness of my own company.

In the mirror behind the bar I noticed the image of Loony Louie shambling into The Rusty Trumpet.  Loony Louie was famous for scrounging around the streets and sidewalks of Punta Gordita and picking up cigarette butts, smoking whatever was left right down to the nub.  He’d come in the bar pre-drunk, having been medicating at home to save money.  They say he’s the cheapest man alive in all of San Guano.

Ass-Rocket was being an asshole.  He picked up his beer and headed my way.  I’m sure he did this deliberately and on purpose.  His mud flaps was working overtime.  So I retreated back to the Government end.  I placed myself on a seat next to Uncle Sammy, who was a decent bar denizen who mostly dropped in on weekends.  Uncle Sammy owned the biggest conch house on the island, and it’s rumored Hemingway once stayed there long ago.

In the Balcony Rick Rottingham was waving his arms over his head like a madman, his voice loudly rising above the noise, as he berated Sputnik, “But look at you now.”

Well that about did it for me.  I decided it was time to turn in and I went to bed.  As usual, I proceeded to drift off and have the weirdest dreams.  I dreamed about wild jungle cats and voodoo dancers, and fire and dark shadows, and menace around every bush and tree.  It was a relief to wake up and go to work.  I never thought I’d ever admit that.

I didn’t know what to expect with Sandi Dollar meeting up with Madama Krupskaya in the bar, but I was soon to find out.  I entered The Rusty Trumpet as I normally would, a little after midnight.  And there they was.  Sandi looking like herself, a bit overdressed if still frumpy, covered in rhinestones.  The other one, Madama Krupskaya, was wrapped in black material, and she wore a black hat, and there wasn’t much to see about her, except the overwhelming sense of black.  The thing that freaked me out the most was I couldn’t see her reflection in the bar mirror.  I need to get my eyes checked.

The inside room of The Rusty Trumpet was aglow with lighted votive candles in abalone shells.  Sandalwood incense burned.  I was surprised there wasn’t any rats or cockroaches around.  Hell, even Boo was missing from his customary station.  No doubt outside romancing some lady cat.

I begun my swamping chores, but I admit, I was mesmerized by the activities going on.  Madama Krupskaya held Sandi’s hands in a sympathetic way.  I tried hard to ignore them and go about my work quietly.  Still, I listened in.

I’m not sure where Madama Krupskaya was in the séance process, but she cut loose with some painful groans and a howl of complete gibberish.  Then her fake, long lashed eyes peered deep into infinity, beyond the ceiling even, and she ended her incantation:

Mares zygotes
And bippity bobbler
Send us the spirit
Of Durwood Dobbler

Holy Mother of Pearl, I wasn’t expecting what happened next.  Madama Krupskaya’s shoulders drooped, and she hissed, “Yesss.”

Sandi sounded urgent, “Is he here?”

Madama Krupskaya was silent a long time.  Then, “No.”

“No?”  (I think Sandi started to mist up and sniffle.)

Madama Krupskaya explained, “There are three women here tonight.”

“What?” Sandi exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Madama Krupskaya said.  “There are three women who want to say something.”

“What do they want to say?”  Sandi sounded a little disappointed.

“These three have something important to share.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me see….”  Madama Krupskaya stretched out the moment to high drama.

“What?”  Sandi pleaded.  “What?”

“Well, I see one very old woman.  Very old indeed.  She just turned around and mooned me.”

(Although I wasn’t trying to get too involved, I heard that.  I knew in a heartbeat she was talking about my deceased Great-Granny Fanny.  I just knew it had to be her.  Dunno why, but I did.)

“The second one is dancing like crazy on the deck of the Titanic.”

(I knew in my bones this was my mother Cha-Cha Kartone, a world famous dancer who perished in a tragic boating accident off Catalina.  Actually, she was killed in a hit by the mob.)

“The third one is in a filthy robe with pink, fluffy rabbit slippers.  Her eyes are lit up, as if in a drunken stupor or a state of abject denial.  There’s something hidden in the pocket of her robe.”

(Edna Peevy, of course.  Little Billy’s dead mother from Broken Heart Park.  To my mind there was no doubt about it.  In her pocket was a flask of O Promise Me scotch whisky, I know.)

Madama Krupskaya continued, “They are trying to say something, but I am having trouble understanding their meaning.”

I chimed in, “Well I know who they are, if that helps.”  (I wished this was a game show where I could win a room full of fabulous prizes for knowing all the answers.  How many times in life would that happen?)

Madama Krupskaya seemed somewhat agitated now.  She turned to me, “They want to tell you something important, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Why not?” I asked.

The medium said, “This isn’t easy.  The dearly departed don’t speak in words like we do.  It’s more like charades with them.”

Well, that didn’t help my confidence level.

Madama Krupskaya admitted that perhaps the spirit world was having technical glitches this evening.  She commented that a soul’s problems never go away, not even in an afterlife.

Sandi’s eyes rocked back and forth in little half-circles, and tears began to well.  It seemed she wouldn’t have a heartfelt talk with her beloved Durwood Dobbler.  Madama Krupskaya stroked Sandi’s hands in a gesture of sympathy.  I sensed the séance was coming to a closure.

Sandi got up and asked, “Money or honey?”

Madama Krupskaya replied, “The usual, but only if it’s Cruz Family.”

“Esteban and Hector’s finest, I’m told,” Sandi said.

A few moments later Sandi Dollar emerged from her room back behind the bar loaded with an armful of jars.  She handed them over to the woman dressed head-to-toe in black.  Madama Krupskaya stashed the jars away in a black satchel.  She turned and held Sandi’s hand.  “It’s not for us to know,” she sounded real sympathetic.  “There will be other nights.”

Sandi sniffled a bit more and saw Madama Krupskaya out the front door.  She then picked up her album of Durwood Dobbler memorabilia and a bottle of Beefeater’s gin on the way to her room.  She didn’t even bother to say goodnight to me.  But I wasn’t offended too much, since I understood the source of her grief and unhappiness.

After Sandi disappeared into the backroom and locked her door, I swear, I heard that dented rusty trumpet hung behind the bar toot a few notes.